


To hold a bird

by Shivanessa



Series: Bird [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Dom!Tony, Dom/sub, Healthy Relationships, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, M/M, Nipple Play, Past Abuse, Self-Harm, Trauma, sub!peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:02:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23218183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shivanessa/pseuds/Shivanessa
Summary: After mob boss Tony Stark killed his rival Quentin Beck he took the abused toyboy Peter in. He knows that the young man is deeply hurt and troubled by all that happened, but slowly a relationship evolves. Maybe with time, both of them can do some healing through pain and submission.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Bird [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669291
Comments: 88
Kudos: 282





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second part of Bird. It continues a couple of weeks after the end of part one
> 
> Spoiler for upsetting content, please mind the tags!

Peter felt strange. 

The strange itch he could not scratch was back and behind the wall of pretense he had the feeling of slowly going insane. His clothes were too tight, his skin taut, cutting off his ability to breath. Nervous and on the edge, his eyes darted around restlessly. 

Peter knew that feeling. It got him into trouble often enough. Making him restless, taking unnecessary risks, doing stupid things. 

He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to draw deep breaths, to calm his strung up nerves, but to no avail. 

It was three weeks that he lived with Stark now. Three weeks where had expected the man to make a move. To order him into bed or onto his lap. To show his true colors and make use of Peter. 

It was bound to happen. Stark's eyes were… wanting. 

Peter often caught him watching, his face impassive and calm, but his ganze gliding over Peter's frame so intensely that he almost could feel it. It left him anxious and on the edge but still… it stoked the fever in him. 

At first he dreaded what was coming his way. Feared it. Avoided it. 

Now it would almost be a relief if the man made a move. 

Even when it hurt, it would end the waiting and scratch the itch. Especially when it hurt. 

Quentin had shown him how it was done, how it worked. A dark part of Peter longed for it. To be under Stark's heel, crushed and crumbled. To be in pain. 

At least those feelings would stop then. 

For a while. 

His shaking hands slipped over his upper lip. Sweat had gathered there. Stark did not make his move. Played with him, this unfathomable game. Hunter and prey. 

Peter knew: There was another way. A way his younger self had chosen before. Before Quentin. No scars remained from that stage of his life. Peter had seen to it to not to leave marks. At least not such that wouldn't vanish. His blade, a small kitchen knife kept hidden under his bed. He had used it only late in the evening and he had seen to it that the cuts never were too deep so that they could fade a bit overnight. So that May wouldn't notice.

Maybe he hadn't stopped doing it if he hadn't met Quentin. After that Peter never had to cut again. What Quentin did to him was enough, more than enough. Nothing rivaled the release through lust, pain, and lassitude. Until the thing with Quentin became… more than  _ injurious _ . 

Peter shook his head at himself. 

It was over. 

And not only that. 

It had been abuse. Quentin had used him. 

It had been  _ wrong _ . 

Tears pricked in his eyes when the thought hit him again. He distantly remembered that in the beginning he liked when Quentin hurt him. With slaps and strikes before and during sex. Even when sex became less frequent. With restraining him and playing with him until the lust became hurt too.

It was hard to realize, to truly let the thought draw near, but over the last three weeks it became unavoidable. What Quentin had done to him. Why Peter had often felt so bad. Hurt. Scared. 

While he still needed the thrill of being in the others hands, the relief had been so rotten. Mostly misery. As if it wasn't all the same what kind of hurt Peter had. 

Peter's hands digged into his hair, pulling the stands violently. It all was too much! Too complicated and raw! Peter's head felt fuzzy and his stomach was a tight knot. 

He needed an out. It had to stop. Now! Somehow! 

It was a small blade. Just a tool to trim nails, but sharp. Peter had found it in the cabinet of a guestroom's bath and brought it to his own room.

He would not cut. Just press the blade into the skin a little. Just… a tiny bit. 

His strung up nerves buzzed. 

Noise in his ears. 

Focus on the silver blade in his hand. 

Against the sensitive skin of his arm. 

A short sting. 

A drop of blood.

Relief rushed through him. 

A bit more. Just a little. Not too deep, not to leave a scar. 

Peter sighed, concentrated. 

Four cuts on his lower arm stood glaring red against the pale skin of the inner part. 

He panted, little gasps for air in the silent room. Still, sweat on his brow. The feeling of anguish rising again. 

It wasn't the same as it had been before. Before Quentin. 

Desperately he pressed again. And again. The lines became broader, the sting sharper. Hot and painful it rushed through his veins and finally, finally, the tightness in his chest lessened. 

Peter eyed his arm. 

Thick red drops of blood, dropping down to the marble floor. 

His eyes widened and he gasped, scrambled for tissues, his shirt,  _ anything _ to stop the bleeding! He never before had cut this deep. 

After the rush of adrenaline a hollow feeling flooded his body. He sat on the floor, pressing a piece of fabric to his arm. 

Slowly, Peter started to sob. 


	2. Chapter 2

Since he stayed with Stark, Peter's life had gained a strange kind of recurrence. Everyday he rose at Jarvis waking call, showered and found his way to the dining room to have breakfast. Everyday Stark awaited him there already. As uncomfortable as it had been to be alone with the man in the beginning, it slowly unfolded a strange sense of stability. Even if they rarely talked, it gave Peter some kind of company. 

Same things at the same time. 

Routines. 

In a world without anchor it was something to hold onto. 

While Stark read the news and drank his coffee Peter quietly ate whatever he was given. Which was always just the best it seemed. Jarvis, silent but profound in his service, saw to it that Peter should want for nothing. Despite him being all professional and polite towards him Peter felt a bit intimidated by the proficient service and distinguished attitude. 

Today Peter felt even more timid when Jarvis put the chair in place for him. Trying to hide what he had done, he kept his arm as still as possible when he sat down. He had chosen one of the long-sleeved shirts that Stark had provided for his stay, hoping that it would not draw too much attention. With no bandages at hand Peter had used toilet paper to wrap the wounds, caring that no rustling would give him away. 

After a short greeting Stark didn't spare him a glance, staying focused on his pad. 

He eyed the man in secret. His calm demeanor, the dark eyes focused on whatever he was reading at the moment. His manly, perfectly manicured hands holding the pad. A unobtrusive silver ring shining with each movement of his left middle finger. 

Peter observed him like he had so often in the last three weeks, and still couldn't make sense of him. When Stark talked to subordinates, be it on the phone or in person, his deep voice was always calm, almost quiet. And still, most of the people faced him with great respect and reverence. Quentin had gained the same, but with shouting at and even smacking his subordinates. Once he had smashed a vase over a business partner's head. And all the time he asserted his dominance in stance, speech, scrutiny. 

In comparison Stark was almost… serene. 

Despite that, everybody seemed to be on their tiptoes around him. 

Except Jarvis… and that blonde guy Rogers… 

Stark sat down his cup, calling Peter's attention back to the present. 

"You're bleeding." 

Peter almost jerked up from his seat. He looked down, cold terror creeping up his spine. 

Fuck!

A deep red blotch broadened on his sleeve.

Peter gazed at Stark from under his lashes, holding his breath. Stark however, just regarded Peter calmly, one eyebrow raised. 

"It's nothing…" Peter tried, despite the evidence. 

Stark's eyebrow rose higher. 

"Doesn't look like nothing."

Peter rose from his chair, hiding his arm behind his back. "It's nothing!" 

Stark got up too. 

"Don't hide injuries from me."

"It's… it's just a scratch!" Peter gave back, ducking his head defensively. 

Stark, cold as a glacier, extended his hand. 

"Then show me."

Peter stared at him. A part of him wanted to do what he was told but another screamed at him to hide it, lie about it, flee. 

"No. It's just, I stumbled in the bath and-..." 

A slap landed on his face. It wasn't even that hard, he had worse, but still it pierced through him sharp and intense and focused all his attention on the man in front of him. Stark's dark eyes glared at him fiercely, his usually full lips pressed in a thin line. 

"Don't you  _ dare _ lying to my face."

Peter was frozen to the spot, his eyes wide and his heart beating so loud, it must be audible to the man in front of him. He swallowed. 

Then, slowly and hesitantly, his arm came up to present the stain to Mr. Stark. To expose his weakness and shame. 

But the man didn't take hold of it and he didn't slip back the sleeve to have a closer look. 

"Jarvis, call Bruce. He might need his first aid kit."

"Right away sir."

Peter's cheeks started to burn when he watched the butler turn to carry out the order. How could he have forgotten that Jarvis was present? He had seen the whole exchange and how impudently Peter had acted in front of Mr. Stark. It would not end well to challenge the man in front of his servants, Peter was sure of that. But now it was too late and there was nowhere to hide. 

Instead of lashing out however, Stark caged him with this intense stare. 

Peter looked at his feet. 

"I know that you cut. The question is why."

Peter held his breath. Then he shrugged halfheartedly. What was there to say?

Mr. Stark just waited.

The suffocating tightness was back, the buzz in his head, a dull throbbing that made it hard to grasp a thought. Peter shut his eyes. 

"I don't  _ know _ ! I'm just a sick freak I guess."

Dark eyes became smaller. Peter wanted to vanish. 

"I don't think so." 

Peter was about to give an insolent answer but he still felt a light sting on his cheek and the tingling sensation it had spread in his body so he kept his mouth shut. Still, his gaze was more deviant when he looked up and into Mr. Stark's eyes. 

The man's eyes searched his face. "I think you have a reason. Something that you want to gain from it."

"What I want from it?" Peter scrunched up his nose, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Are you going to say next that I should seek help and learn to love myself?!" Right after this outburst he closed his eyes, expecting another slap in exchange for his brazenness. 

Stark however, relaxed. Changing his stance from one foot to the other he crossed his arms. "I wasn't going to say something stupid like that." he inclined his head. "It fulfills a purpose." He paused a moment, assessing Peter closely. 

"I can't say what you  _ want _ . But I know what you  _ need _ ."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this feels a bit like an interlude, but I had to have them say a bunch of things to each other to clear the air before they can proceed. Hopefully you guys still enjoy.

"I know what you need."

A terrible feeling enfolded in Peter's guts. 

"What I _'need'_...?" A dry laugh escaped him. "You have no idea what I might need!" He interrupted himself and averted his eyes to hide the swelling of tears. 

But Mr. Stark just regarded him calmly. Again there was this strange feeling as if nothing in the world could shake the man, not even Peter cutting himself bloody in front of him. 

Whatever could have been said between them however, was interrupted by Dr. Banner who rushed out of the elevator, his emergency bag in hand. He looked from one to the other with wide eyes. 

"What happened?!" 

Mr. Stark stepped aside to give way to Peter who pressed the sleeve to his arm. The stain was bigger now and he felt the warm wetness spreading. 

"Oh…" was all Banner said before he led Peter to the kitchen. There he started to clean up the wounds and bandaged it properly. Peter didn't feel much of it. The sight of his bleeding arm was strangely detached from his inner reality. 

During the treatment he did not look up to meet the doctor's inquisitive gaze and he was glad that Banner did not ask questions. It was pretty obvious what kind of wounds he was treating here anyway. 

After he was done Dr. Banner waited a moment, but when Peter did not respond to his kind gaze he sighed. "Leave the bandage on, don't get it wet. I'll change it tomorrow, let me know when it gets worse, okay?" he waited for an answer but when he got none he left to talk to Stark. 

Peter used the opportunity and slipped away to his room where. He sat down on the bed carding his hands through his hair. 

_Fuck!_

*  
  


"It's self harm."

"I know."

"Not the first time I bet."

"I know."

"What do you intend to _do_ about it?!" Bruce snapped his bag shut and the click was as accusing as his gaze. 

"I'm an engineer." Tony turned to him, a half smile on his lips that held no humor. "I'm going to fix it."

Bruce watched him as if he had grown a second head. 

"People are no machines, Tony."

"They are not that different."

"Except that you can not try to turn it off and on again when you fail!"

Tony turned to him. 

"Everybody has his mode operandi. If that gets disturbed the person becomes unbalanced. Broken. Broken things can be fixed."

Bruce watched him a couple of moments. 

"You're serious." He propped the hands in his hips and shook his head. 

"Well, don't forget to call when he tried to kill himself." 

  
*  
  


It took less time than expected until a short knock announced Stark's presence on Peter's door. He left the it half open, he had nothing more to hide anyway, and the man leaned in the doorframe. 

"Banner said it's not too serious. You made clean cuts and did not catch a major blood vessel."

Peter nodded without looking up. Whatever. 

"How long are you going to keep me here?" 

Stark changed his stance a little. "What do you mean?" 

Peter looked up, his eyes red rimmed but dry. 

"How long do you intend to keep me waiting? I know that you want to… do stuff. Just go ahead! This _waiting_ is driving me nuts!" 

He got up from the bed. Slowly Stark's calmness made him angry. His chest felt constricted, tight. He should shut up, he knew it, but he couldn't. 

"Or are you as impotent as Quentin was!?" Peter spat out, a shiver of fear running through him. Four weeks ago such an accusation would have gotten him killed. 

But Stark just _chuckled_ to himself. 

"This is not about me."

Fear and anger and the incapabaility to do something about it broke out of Peter. "What do you want from me?! Why am I here?! So that you can play your asshole games with me?!" Peter laughed darkly. "Well, guess what, you're not the first to use me as his personal toy!" his lips curled downward. 

"You said what Quentin did to me was _wrong_ . Well, how about I _liked_ it? How about I was on board with whatever sick shit he came up with. How about I _need to it to myself_ , since you shot him in the face right in front of me!" 

Peter tried to hide the hot tears in his eyes, tried to rush past Stark to flee and hide from his all-knowing gaze. Stark's hand shot forward, closing around his upper arm with an iron grip. Peter gasped, expecting a blow, finally, for all he had said. but no push came, not hit and no kick to bring Peter to his knees. Stark simply held him in place and regarded him with his cool stare. 

Peter panted in front of him, a small bird in the caw of the cat. Stark's eyes became smaller. "Like I said: I know what you need."

"What the fuck are you even saying?! What is it that I need?! To hurt? To be destroyed?!" 

"To submit."

Peter stared at him as if he had grown a second head. A pulse went through him that he tried to ignore. 

"Wha-... ?" 

The man only nodded. His dark eyes seemed to look directly into Peter's soul. 

"I can give you what you need. But you need to submit to it willingly."

"You're _mad…_!" Peter whispered. The wounds on his arm throbbed. 

"You know nothing of me! Let go!" 

The second Peter said it, Stark let go of his arm and Peter stumbled a few steps back. Surprised he looked up.

The man looked him dead in the eye. Slowly coming closer. He was now right in front of Peter, so near that he could smell the aftershave. But despite his strong body that commanded respect his stance held no threat and he did not touch Peter again. 

"Why did you do that?" Peter asked, rubbing the place where Stark had held him. 

"I say it again. You're not a prisoner. I will not force you." His eyes bore into Peter's. 

"But as soon as you are willing to ask for it, I'll give you what you need."

Peter looked up, falling into the darkness of stark's eyes above him. 

"What is it that I need?" 

A small smile graced the man's lips. 

" _Peace_."


	4. Chapter 4

Peter felt strange. 

He was on his knees, kneeling with nothing more than his underwear on the floor. Nothing too unusual. But this time it wasn't the bare floor, but one of the couch pillows. 

"You should not have to deal with unnecessary pain. I want you to focus on what I give you." Stark had said but to Peter it was all a mystery. Pain was pain, wasn't it? 

After the puzzling talk three days ago Peter had tried to avoid Stark at first. Waited anxiously for the man to snap the trap shut. 

But he hadn't. 

Stark had gone about his days as he always did, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Doing his business. Working out. Having coffee. Leaving Peter alone. 

At the second day Peter found himself starting to stalk him like a stray cat. There was this strange urge to draw close. To be in the same room. Even the wish for body contact, not sexual but as if he wanted to just rub against the man while he worked. And when he sat down in the same too., just a few feet apart, Stark didn't send him away. He recognized Peter's presence with a nod and continued what he was doing. 

All Peter could do was to file away all these happenings to decipher them later since they made no sense at all. 

And still. 

A part of him felt strangely at peace. The worst had happened. Stark had see the cuts. He had seen what Peter had done to himself. And promised to give him more of it. Despite Peter being a freak. 

Deep down he feared that the was about to submit under a second Quentin. A person who enjoyed to make others suffer, to deal pain and oppress. To let off some steam on another's back. But Peter simply couldn't care anymore. As much as he hadn't cared in the end when Quentin had done it. As long as this agonizing feeling in his chest was squashed. Even if laying destroyed on the floor again wasn't something he looked forward to. 

So he had made a desicion. On the end of the third day, he had walked up to Stark after Rogers had left. With his head down, he had asked for what the man could give him. To cure the tightness in his chest that did not let him draw breath. To crush him. 

Stark had watched him calmly. 

"You're willing to submit?"

"I am. Tell-... tell me what to do and I will…" Peter's voice had cracked a bit but his stance had remained upright. 

Stark had regarded him for a few moments. 

"Undress. Underpants only. Kneel down here." With that he placed a pillow from the couch on the floor. And then left. 

Peter did as he had been told. It must been a couple of minutes since he knelt on the floor and waited for Stark to come back. What would he do? What would he bring? Quentin had rarely tried out tools. Peter was used to slaps and even fists or kicks. Once Quentin had used a cigarette on him. That had been awful. 

Peter tried to suppress such thoughts and memories. It didn't matter. Even if the feeling was hard to withstand, afterwards he would be freed of the  _ urge _ . At least for a little while. 

Footsteps behind him made his ears perk up. Stark's expensive shoes made only little sounds on the wooden floor. 

Peter braced himself for the impact. His heart beat faster. The noises in his ear became louder, droning out anything else. Fear clouded his thinking, but also anticipation. A certain sick fascination for the fact that he was only half scared out of his mind. 

The rustling of expensive fabric made him almost turn his head, but then he caught himself. To Peter's surprise Stark knelt down behind him. Peter was between his spread knees, so close he could feel the man's body-warmth seeping through the clothes onto his naked back. 

"Lean against me if you want."

Peter tried to comprehend the order - was it even an order? - through the turmoil in his head. "This starts because you asked for it. And it will end when you ask for it." Stark waited for Peter to acknowledge what he had said. Peter nodded, even if he didn't understand the meaning with. 

Then hands on his shoulders, the skin rough, but the touch surprisingly soft. A hand in his neck, squeezing there softly, but with the feeling that much more force was available. Peter shuddered. 

The hands rubbed over his skin and slowly he grew used to the contact, a bit of the strain in his shoulders lessened. 

"That's good. Relax."

Peter let his eyes fall close. Stark seemed to like some foreplay before he arrived at the main event. It was okay. Kind of… reassuring. He focused on the feeling of the hands on his skin. A light scratch of fingernails highlighted the sensation. It was way more sensual than expected and Peter felt his skin heat up under the contact. 

Slowly Stark accustomed him to the touch that inch by inch grew heavier. Stroking turned to squeezing, kneading, grabbing, until Peter felt his flesh manipulated under the strong hands. His back, neck, hips, even the arms were handled like this until he felt strangely lightheaded. He just noticed that he relaxed against the man when he felt the fabric of his shirt against his back. Somehow he had ended up embraced from behind, his head resting on Stark's broad shoulder. 

Stark's hands wandered to his chest, stroking over his nipples, making them hard. Again and again the thumbs rubbed over them until the sensation became an unsettling quality. Stark started to pinch the buds, at first just the nub itself, pressing on them until Peter gasped, pulling them away from his chest slowly, deliberately. Then, he squeezed them like he had Peter's muscles before, beginning on the soft outer parts where the flesh was so much more sensitive, heightening the pressure while moving to the center. Sparks of the sweetest pain bloomed on Peter's chest and he breathed a little faster. The sensation started to bind his whole thinking, focusing only on the points of contact. Stark pulled on his nipples, twisted them and rubbed them hard between his thumb and index finger until they were deep pink and throbbing. 

Slowly Peter became a mess, gasping and moaning, whether the touch was more sensual or painful. Pinches on other parts of his chest highlighted the sensation with bright sparks of pain before the attention returned to his abused nipples. It was as if he was an instrument in Stark's arms that the man played with vigor and great patience, just to listen to the sounds Peter made under his hands. On and on he tortured the tender flesh until time and space were meaningless, and only his hands existed. 

Finally the boy could not hold on any longer. He was achingly hard, his cock straining against his underwear, leaving wet spots in the fabric. 

"Please…" he sobbed, unable to grasp a single thought. Was he pleading for the man to stop? To go on? He couldn't know anymore. His mind was filled with warmth, Lust, surrender. 

Stark however, seemed to know. He pulled Peter tight against himself and pressed his palm over Peter's crotch, against his aching cock. But didn't move it. 

"You want to come?" 

"Please… Ye-Yes please…" 

A dark chuckle vibrated against his neck. The hand pressed down a little more. 

"Go on then."

Peter gasped, then finally he understood what Stark meant. Deliberately he bucked his hips as much as it was possible while being pressed against Stark's chest, held in place by his arm. Somehow he managed to gain more friction, squirming in place to rub his cock against the palm. Peter gasped for air while he fought and bucked and twitched. It didn't take long before the sensations overwhelmed him and he came with a cry. 

Stark held him through it, his beard scratching over Peter's neck while the boy in his arms lived through his climax. 

Finally Peter slumped down against him. Breathing hard, his heart thundering in his chest. The warmth spread through his whole body. It felt like floating on a soft pillow. Until the fall. 

But instead of being dumped to the floor he was held. Stark's strong arms around him kept him safe, his breath in his neck was soft, calm. 

A murmur made it through the fogginess in Peter's head. "Good. Very good. You did well." A soft breath against his hair let him shiver. He needed the warmth of the man behind him and if he could he would have turned and cuddled into the embrace. But Peter was exhausted. Unable to move a single limb. So he let himself be held from behind, his nipples throbbing but the feeling being washed away in the afterglow sensation. Slowly the climax turned into a blissful warm feeling. 

No thoughts. 

Just… peace. 


	5. Chapter 5

Peter sat in bed, wide awake and still kind of numbed, staring into the nightly city. His mind buzzed on a low level, incoherent thoughts floating around and disappearing as if they were soap-bubbles that popped when touched. 

After the - whatever it had been, Peter had no word to even describe it - Stark had held him. Held him until he was floating down to a warm place. 

How the man had gotten him into bed was beyond Peter. Somehow he ended up here, in the half dreamlike state was in now. Even his soiled underwear was gone and the remnants of his climax with it. 

The lights of New York bathed him in an unreal glow. In the dimness the bandage on his arm was barely visible against his pale skin. 

To his surprise he wasn't in pain. Not too much at least. His nipples throbbed a bit and a light scratch on his shoulder gave a tiny sting when he moved. But both was just a tiny hum on the outer parts of his consciousness. Nothing like he was used to. He felt… good. 

What it was that Stark got out of it was beyond his reach however. The man had played this game with Peter, not even attempting to benefit in a sexual way from it, and then brought him to bed. His words came back to mind, rising as one of those bubbles in Peter's head. 

_ 'This starts because you asked for it. And it will end when you ask for it.'  _

He still couldn't make sense of the meaning at all, but the words had a reassuring quality. Like, as if Peter was a participant in what was happening and not the victim. He turned the thought over in his head a few times before it popped and disappeared. 

It was kind of fascinating that he felt so calm. As if he had taken a long, hot bath. 

Relaxed. 

The uproar in himself had come to a halt, stilled in a way he knew from some of the games he had endured in the past. But Stark had not really  _ hurt _ him, hadn't he? The light scratching and even the more forceful kneading or the handling of his nipples hadn't been something Peter considered  _ bad _ . Just… a little… rough. Nothing noteworthy. And still… he felt so calm. 

Deep down, under the calm however, there still was the abyss. Peter felt its gravity like one felt the depths of a lake while paddling on the surface. Unaffecting at the moment, but still there. A threat looming in the dark. He couldn't let himself fall into it. He needed to… keep moving to stay on the surface. 

The thought popped as soon as he touched it and Peter sighed. There was no point in trying to figure this out now. He still was Stark's 'guest' and if he was honest, he had nowhere to go and nothing else to do. 

Slowly he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. 

*

"His aunt is alive. Resides in Queens. She tried to find him in the beginning but somebody must have convinced her to leave it be." Natasha's voice was bored while she reported what she found out about May Parker. Tony listened, his eyes focused on the newsflash on the screen. He nodded. 

"Let's keep an eye on her, just in case that somebody is suspecting her to hide her nephew."

Natasha watched him a moment before she nodded and typed on her phone to get things done. 

Tony knew that she wanted to know why she organized personal protection for a nobody just a middle aged woman who lived in a two room apartment. Why her boss cared about her. But she was way too professional to ask and he was not inclined to explain. 

"Who took over Beck's position?" 

"William Ginter Riva." Natasha pressed a button and the photo appeared on the screen next to the newsflash. 

Tony turned to her with one eyebrow raised. Riva had been working for him, together with Quentin Beck. After the fight with Beck both had left and founded their own group. But Riva was no leading material. 

"Well then. Go find him. I want to have words with him." He grinned darkly. "On the phone, as far as I'm concerned."

Natasha regarded him with a curious look but it was Steve who spoke up. He had not been so occupied with his own phone as it seemed. 

"You wonder why he is willing to negotiate with the piece of scum that leads this insignificant bunch of thugs?" he directed at her and got up from his seat. "You're not the only one."

Tony turned to him. 

"Something on your chest, Steve?" 

They stared at each other, none of them willing to step back a second. Natasha's eyes wandered from one to the other. 

"They challenged us. We should make clear that this is a no-go." 

"We did. Beck is dead. His possession mine."

Steve snarled at him. "Do you refer to the documents? Or his toy?" 

Tony just raised his brows. 

"We need to negotiate. Work together if needed. Whatever form that takes, I'm game. If we can't accept others, we're boundaryless, we're no better than the those thugs".

"Tony, someone leaves your family you hunt them down. You don't let it slip!" 

"Who said we're letting it slip?" 

"We are, if we're not making an example out of that. That Beck and his apes left, let us appear weak. If we spare them now, it will become worse!" Steve was close now, his stance threatening. He always was a hot-headed guy but since Beck's departure it had become worse. Now he challenged Tony head on, trying to stare him down. 

Tony however, just crossed his arms and inclined his head, not playing Steve's game of who-has-most-intimidating-stance. He was not called Iron Man for nothing. 

"I'll handle it. Without escalating it further."

Steve stared at him, his jaw worked. Then he raised his hands. "Fine! Do what you want! Wait it out! I hope that little ass is worth it!" 

He turned and marched out of the room.

Natasha turned to Tony, her eyebrows raised. 

"What is this all about?"

But Tony only shook his head. 

"He'll get a hold on himself. Don't worry."

*

When they left the study they met Peter in the living room. Natasha regarded him from head to toe and when her eyes returned to Tony's a big  _ 'I see' _ was written all over her face. 

Peter, his puppy eyes wide because of the glare Steve had given him a moment before, watched them silently. 

"Well then Tony. Take care. I'm off."

"See you Nat."

When the elevator door closed behind her, Natasha shook her head. Tony wasn't as subtle as he thought. And the fact that he was willing to negotiate with a group of ex-members, just to prevent the remnants lashing out at his new roommate and his family, spoke volumes. Who would have guessed that Tony- _ detached _ -Stark got himself a prospective boyfriend?


	6. Chapter 6

"Uhm… Mr. Stark?“

He turned to the Peter who had gotten up from the couch after Natasha left. The boy looked more shy than he had up till now, the lines of his jaw not so rigid, his stance less defensive. 

"Yes, Peter?"

"I… uhm… I wanted to thank you. For getting me to bed yesterday and uhm-..." He ducked his head in an adorable show of embarrassment. Tony felt his moth curl into the tiniest smile. Who would have guessed that under the closed shell Peter would possess such an endearing awkwardness. He was… fascinating.

"You're welcome. But I consider this part a of the game."

Peter looked up, his expression puzzled. 

"The game…?" 

Tony came closer. To his satisfaction Peter did not back away, even if his eyes got that cautious glimmer again. Now that he was close enough to count the light freckles on Peter's cute nose Tony inclined his head a bit, his gaze wandering over Peter's open face. 

"The game people like us play with each other. One gives, one receives. And in exchange for submission the dominant sees to it that their partner is well cared for."

Peter just watched him, irritation growing on his face. 

"It's a bargain. You want to be played with. I want to play with you. But it's up to you how far the game goes and up to me to see to it that you're safe."

Now Peter averted his eyes. He swallowed. 

"I don't know of such things…"

Tony's hand in his chin gently forced his ganze back to the man's face. 

"Then let me show you."

*

They had agreed on 'playing' again the same night and Peter waited for it with anticipation and fear in equal parts. He still didn't trust Stark. If it was power over another person that got Stark going, why restrict it? That made no sense. Peter was at his mercy anyway. Stark could have him tortured or killed and nobody would ask twice about it. And still… he made it seem as if Peter had a say in what was happening.

Peter hugged himself, staring out of the window. The man could talk all he wanted about Peter deciding 'how far' it went. But in the end it was Stark who held the whip, that much was sure! 

*

They ate dinner together, as usual not talking much. From his past Peter was used to it that his opinion wasn't of importance. Quentin always had talked for two so that it hadn't been so quiet. Stark seemed to be content to just… watch him over the table. It had been a bit embarrassing in the beginning, but Peter had gotten used to it. It seemed to give the man some kind of satisfaction, which all in all lead to a relaxed mood. 

_ 'Maybe I should dress up a bit, to be nicer to watch…' _ Peter thought to himself but had no idea what would please the man in his company so he let the thought fall again. 

*

After dinner Peter waited for Stark in the living room. Should he undress? Kneel down? He had no idea and the nervousness started to spread again, mingling with anticipation in his belly. Why was it suddenly so important to be pleasing? Maybe out of fear? But even if he was a hell of a lot nervous Peter didn't feel frightened. 

Stark came over, a scotch in hand. He had left his tie by the bar and looked relaxed in his shirt with two buttons undone and the opened waistcoat. Peterey3d him from under his bangs while he let the breath escape of which hadn't even recognized he was holding. 

Stark inclined his head a bit, watching him intently. 

"From your past experiences with the game… which parts did you enjoy?" 

Peter felt his cheeks color in an instant. Why was Stark so inquisitive about this? Things he  _ enjoyed _ . He was a freak, he enjoyed… disgusting stuff. Peter lowered his head, biting his lip in anguish. 

Nothing would spare him the answer however, he knew that already. Stark was unnaturally patient. And nosy. 

"I… uh. I think I got excited when… ah… I was bound? Restrained? Like, I couldn't move or control the situation at all?"

Stark nodded and sipped his drink. 

"And. Oh God… like, when I got slapped? I was hard and horny and the slapps, I don't know…"

"Sensations that are usually painful can heighten sexual experiences." Stark shrugged and Peter looked up. His face was still awfully hot, but somehow when Stark phrased it, it sounded as if this wasn't too much out of 'normal standards'. Strange. 

Peter huffed, searching for words. 

"I kinda liked that I wasn't Qu-... a  _ boyfriend _ ? Like, he let me do stuff for him and ignored me and I had no say in what we're doing and where we're going. As if I was his… property." Peter raised his chin, feeling almost challenging.  _ 'How are you going to normalize this, Stark!' _ he thought to himself. The man however, just smiled his small and not very warm smile. 

"It can be relieving to let go. To act as somebody's property elates you from choices. It's like being a child again. The same goes for restraints. Decisions are taken away from you, you're at someone's mercy. It's… a holiday."

Stark watched him a few moments, sipping his drink. Peter felt as if the man was seeing right through him. 

"I bet it wasn't always easy. To be a good kid, a good student. With what was going on at home. How much you had to function properly."

Suddenly Peter felt tears prick in his eyes again and he looked down to hide them. 

"Don't try to psychoanalyze me! You don't know me…!" he hissed, but it was half heartedly. 

Why this was hitting so close to home he had no idea. Where Stark had the information from or why he even cared. But suddenly Peter felt the urge to kneel down and bury his face in stark's hip, to press his mouth and nose into the fabric until he couldn't breathe anymore. But he could not do that, couldn't he?

"Come here."

Peter stepped closer and Stark gripped his neck. He squeezed there, a strange feeling of reassurance spreading in Peter's belly. 

"You're with me now. I'll take care of it. No more thoughts."

*

Peter followed Mr. Stark up the stairs and for the first time since he stayed in the apartment he set foot in the master bedroom. 

Of course there was one wall consisting only of windows and a huge bed in the center. But by the closet was an open space where nooks and rings in the hardwood floor and the wall offered various possibilities to restrain. A ring on a chain hung of the ceiling. Peter eyed it with a dry mouth. 

Nooks on the wall probably were designed to hold instruments but at the moment they were empty. Had Stark taken away what was presented here unusually to not scare him? Or did he use them only during a 'game'? 

_ 'No more thoughts' _ had been his order and Peter tried to not think about what was coming his way. The play the other day had shown that he was not able to predict what Mr. Stark would be doing anyway. Obviously other rules applied here. 

The thought was reassuring. With Quentin it had all been chaos, wild, untamed, the man unpredictable and only following his whims. Stark seemed different. Very much so. Like a wall. Cold. But reliable. Strong. 

Peter looked up when the man in question turned to him, heavy leather cuffs in hand.

"It's time to undress."

And Peter did. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for impact play (who would have guessed... XD )

Peter’s wrists, bound with heavy leather cuffs, were fixed on the ring above so that he had to stretch his arms over his head. The length of the chain could be adjusted and Stark had done this in a way that forced Peter to stretch his body in order to not dangle from it. With his feet close together he stood safely, but when he was ordered to spread his legs he balanced more and more on the balls of his feet, depending on how far apart he placed them. 

Peter licked his lips. Anticipation ran up and down his spine. His heart beat fast, the sound thumbing in his ears. He was helpless. Even if he tried to defend himself - which he wouldn't - and kick after Stark, he had no leverage like this. The thought to be in the others hands held a strong sense of danger. But at the same time, it was also reassuring in a way Peter could not explain. 

Stark had left for he walk-in closet behind him. Peter heard him rummage around in there. He licked his dry lips again without noticing. What would the man bring? What did he plan to do? The sensitive balance between fear and anticipation tipped a bit to the former while Peter tried to imagine what Stark had in his stock. 

Finally Stark returned. Peter heard him close the door of the closet. He was not in a hurry it seemed and rounded Peter slowly. The boy's eyes flicked to the hands that held a dark red leather flogger and a golden lined riding crop. 

Peter swallowed. He regarded the tools with mixed feelings. He was not used to such and had no idea what to expect. All of his body was tingling and they hadn't even started. 

"This is to warm you up." Stark explained and lifted the flogger a bit. The dark red strands swayed like seaweed. Then he turned to hang the crop to one of the nooks. 

The question must have been written all over Peter face because Stark chuckled when he moved in front of Peter again. He continued to explain. "To not damage your skin I'll prepare you with a flogger or my hand. It will hurt just a little at the beginning, but you'll take the main event better afterwards."

Peter nodded, puzzled. What else could he do. 

When Stark came closer, his body was touching Peter's side the fabric of his clothes felt cool and soft against Peter’s naked skin. Stark still wore shirt and waistcoat, dress pants and shining leather shoes. In fact more fitting for a meeting than a beating.

His breath ghosted over Peter's face. 

"I want to see how far you like me to go. This is still trial, okay?" 

Peter nodded again. Agreement was expected of course. His mouth was so dry. 

Stark was so close now. He could feel the man’s beating heart, the hairs on the back of his underarm, the warmth of his body under the silk and wool. 

The sensation of Stark’s lips on his cheek however, came as a surprise. Peter gasped, searching the man's face. 

Stark watched him from up close, with his eyes a bit smaller, sharp. "When it becomes too much, say  _ yellow _ . Just that word and I'll stop."

Peters eyes widened. "Wha-...?" 

Starks lips were on his. It was a soft kiss, almost chaste, that turned into a playful nibbling of the man's mouth on his, but it went through him like electricity. His cock hardened. 

When Stark pulled back the smile on his face was smug. 

"Let's begin."

*

Stark stayed close to him, touching Peter's side from chest to hip, sometimes made the boy lean against him. During the warm up Peter got little kisses, soft nibbling on his lips, chin or cheeks. Each second or third slap with the flogger against his ass and the inner parts or back of his thighs was rewarded with a small peck. During small breaks the kisses Stark gave him even heated up to full making out, the man's hands all over his body. 

This  _ ‘game’  _ was something Peter had never done before. 

It was heady. The slowness, the softness and the growing sharpness of the slaps entangled to one inextricable sensation. Quickly Stark had him moaning and gasping, especially when a harder slap met his reddened skin. Peter gave Stark his tongue willingly, gone was all restraint, the boy hungered for each and every touch the man dealt him. 

Peter was so hot and dizzy when Mr. Stark stepped back. His lips sore and his body on fire, the sudden loss of the others body made Peter turn his head with a tiny mewling sound that had the man behind him chuckle softly. 

"Time to turn up the tune, hm?"

Peter couldn't answer. He turned his head to the front and spread his legs, waiting for the impact. The first harder hit landing on Peter's ass made clear that Stark was capable of way more than the soft slapping he had dealt before. The leather strands off the flogger left a hot and tingling sensation on his already sensitive flesh and Peter moaned with his lips pressed close. When Stark changed the flogger for the crop Peter already felt dizzy. He hung his head, focused on keeping his stance while he more and more lost the feeling of time and space. All that mattered was standing there, his arms above his head and the feeling of leather on his ass, his tights. He listened to the little sounds Stark made, breaths through his nose when he swung the the instrument, tiny squeaking of his shoes on the wooden floor when he changed his stance. 

“Keep your legs apart.”

Peter gasped when he noted that he had started to hang on the cuffs. Disoriented he looked around. Sweat run down his face, neck, and chest. It was hard to focus and he blinked. Salt stung in his eyes. Had Stark even changed the instrument yet? Slowly he adjusted his stance to do what he was told, his feet gliding over the smooth floor. The stretch pulled on his abused backside. Peter whined.

Mr. Stark waited until he managed to come back on his foot balls again. Peter did his best to hold a good pose. He had to show that he was a good boy. He could... He would… 

A couple more slaps. Peter was deliciously out of touch. Almost floating. Could not feel his hands, his feet. Didn't count. 

Suddenly it stopped. Peter tried to lift his head, but it was difficult. 

Steps on the floor. Stark came around him. Even with closed eyes Peter sensed him. His warmth. The smell of his aftershave. 

Something wiped the sweat from his face, out of his eyes. It felt like feathers. A bird? 

“You good?” Stark asked and his voice was surprisingly gentle. In the fuzzy mixture of feelings, disconnected with what was happening Peter had a hard time to find the right answer.

“Y-... yeah…” Peter murmured, trying to focus on Mr. Stark. His head wanted to roll to the side but a hand against his cheek prevented that.

“What are you going to say when it’s too much?” 

Peter stared at him and blinked. That made no sense. His body felt hot. He noted that his feet were on the floor again. Peter attempted to bring them back in position but something wasn't working. He hung on the cuffs, his legs dangling uselessly. That pulled on the cuffs in an unpleasant way. He shouldn't to that. He should… 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Stark murmured and Peter could not make any sense of it. All he recognized was that the man opened the cuffs and released him. A surge of panic kicked him more awake again, a new wave of adrenaline pouring into his veins, cold and clear. 

“‘m sorry…” he whispered. "I can… I-..." he flinched back from the touch, could not explain what he wanted to say. His mouth was do dry, his heartbeat so loud in his ears. He hadn't been good. Failed. 

Stark grabbed him. With a whine Peter's body prepared for the impact of hitting the floor in a heap of abused muscles. 

Which didn't happen.


	8. Chapter 8

Peter found himself on the bed, laying on his side. Cool silk was a delight against his heated skin and Peter moaned in relief. 

Stark held him in his arms, Peter’s weak body pressed against his, the upper part propped up. Unregarding the sweat he let the boy's head rest against his shoulder. Slowly he tipped a bottle against Peter's lips and cool water streamed over his dry tongue. Peter swallowed, just now recognizing how thirsty he was. Everything was like in a fever, hazy and hard to comprehend. 

"That's good. Take your time. Just like that." Stark's voice was a soothing murmur, his body a reassuring weight against Peter's shivering frame. When the trembling didn't lessen and goose bumps started to spread all over his skin the man pulled a blanket up and over Peter's shoulders before he gave him another few sips of water. Peter could just lay there and suck it all up, the caring, the warmth. 

Slowly the trembling lessened. 

But the more Peter's body was cared for, the more his bodily discomfort was eased, the more his mind started to run. Remorse crept up his throat, trying to suffocate him. He attempted to move back, away from the soothing tenderness, but Stark's arm around his shoulders kept him close. 

"I'm sorry… I-" Peter mumbled and tried to suppress the urge to cry. Tears were never wanted. He lowered his head to hide his eyes, that filled even if he willed them not to. 

"Hey… all is fine." Stark's hand was back at his face, but not forcing his head up. Instead he carded through the sweaty locks. "Peter, can you look at me?" 

All of this was so confusing. Peter swallowed. He was wandering without a map in a strange land. Everything could be dangerous. And he felt so bad, guilty and small. How much he wanted to just disappear into nothingness. And still… a part of him craved the body contact. The warmth of the blanket, the soothing of the water on his tongue. Stark's voice that was so, so calm and soft. 

"Shhh, don't be afraid. I'm not mad if that what you think."

That finally made Peter look up. He hadn't even known that this was one of his main concerns, too much was his inside in turmoil. But now that Stark voiced it he saw it clear and bright. He feared the rejection. 

"You're… not?" he whispered, searching in the man's face for a clue. 

"Why should I?" Stark gifted him a smile, a rare sight on his otherwise so often emotionless face. "You've been such a brave and good boy. Taking everything I gave you and trying to obey your orders until you couldn't anymore." He kissed Peter's forehead. 

Peter rested against Starks shoulder, staring into nothingness. He tried to comprehend. "I've been good?" 

"Very good." Stark rocked him a little and it felt so good. As if Peter was a child again, unknowing of the world's dangers and aberrations. Cared for. Safe. 

A sting on his ass made him wince when a movement tugged on the abused skin. He tried to suppress it but Stark had seen it. 

"Hurts?" he asked, a finger stroking over Peter's cheek. 

"It's okay."

"Nuh-uh. We won't have that. Game's over."

Peter looked up again to gauge what the man meant. 

"Lay down on your front." With Stark's help Peter did as he was told. Slowly the pain on his backside grew stronger. 

"It's the happy hormones leaving your system. Now it will start to hurt real bad I'm sure. I'll give you something against it." And to Peter's limitless astonishment Stark started to apply some kind of salve on the sore parts of his backside. The man worked with the calm and patience he displayed so often, as if Peter was one of his projects that needed attention. Maybe that was a good way to put it Peter thought. He still could not make sense off Stark's caring behaviour but it felt good. Like the balm on his skin that slowly eased the pain of the beating the tender caring eased the hurt in his soul. His eyes dropped more and more closed. 

_ 'But neither of us came…' _ was the last thought Peter had before sleep engulfed him and washed everything away into peaceful darkness. 

*

When Peter woke it was still dark outside. He still laid in St-...  _ Mr. _ Stark's bed, resting on his belly, a light blanket draped over him. A bottle with water stood close to his hand on the bedside table. Somewhere in the background a shower ran. 

_ 'Should I go?' _ he wondered, but his body felt so heavy and warm. It was a bliss he early had, to just exist without much capacity for worry or anxious feelings. But he couldn't go back to sleep either. If Mr. Stark came back and wanted him gone he would leave of course. Until then he would stay and daydream about the man's touches. His kisses. 

Peter licked his lips. His fingers played with a lint. Mr. Stark had kissed him so much during the play. It had been… 

Peter wanted him. With a certainty that hit him as a hit never could he knew. He wanted Mr. Stark. Wanted him to use him and enjoy him and come on him. In him. Through him. 

Peter had to close his eyes tightly to suppress the whine in his throat, the urge to voice the overwhelming wish that had surged to the surface. 

Did Mr. Stark even want that? Was that a part of the game for him?  _ 'This isn't about me.'  _ he had stated calmly when Peter had try to shame him as impotent.  _ 'Oh my God, how could you say such to his face!' _ Peter crunched up his face when white hot shame surged through him. He wanted to hide his face in the pillows and never look up again! 

Just when he could not breath anymore he turned his head to the side, gasping for air. With closed eyes Peter laid there, trying to make sense of his feelings and the miracle that was Mr. Stark. 

"But I want this to be about you…" he whispered, desperation seeping out of him. 

"What do you want to be about me?"

When Peter opened his eyes Mr. Stark was looking down on him, swathed in a silken bathrobe, the scent of shower gel and wetness wafting off him in steamy clouds. 


End file.
